


A Pirate's Strife For Me

by ProtoChan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Agony, Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, First Aid, Gen, Injury, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Pain, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 12:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18094055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoChan/pseuds/ProtoChan
Summary: Killian’s had a rough day – his beloved died in his arms and her killer made off without a scratch on him. And for that, Killian vowed a quest for vengeance that would not be held back by either magic or time. But as the day comes to a close and Killian spends his first night off the shores of Neverland, one other source of torment plagued by his crocodile still has to be painfully accounted for. (Deleted scene that takes place after the last flashback in “The Crocodile”)





	A Pirate's Strife For Me

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I can write whump just like the cool kids when the mood strikes me! And when @killian-whump is having a bad day, that’s exactly what happens! It is my sworn duty to make you feel better, even if I have to torture Killian to do it (And to be fair, I did already kill the guy! Gotta up the ante, am I right? XD )This is my first straight-up whump fic and I hope that it can cheer you up as I put our little pirate through all sorts of hell! MWAHAHAHAH!!!!!!
> 
> Special thanks to @fraddit for looking this over for me!!!

The only thing Killian Jones knew to be more powerful than magic was adrenaline.

 

A little over a decade ago, it gave him the courage to plant the seeds of rebellion in his men from depths of grief that were as deep and briny as the sea itself.

 

Not long afterwards, it afforded him the composure necessary to bed his Milah for the first time.

 

And just a few hours ago, it bequeathed to Killian the ferocity to fight through the pain of losing his hand and captain his crew to a dangerous realm.

 

But the best evidence of how strong adrenaline could be was how awful he felt when it wore off.

 

Right now was a perfect example.

 

The moon hung high in the sky over Neverland. Even out at sea, Killian was given one hell of a reminder of the heat of the jungle. Even with the bit of coolness that the ocean provided, the ungodly high temperatures proved to be stronger through the clothes that clung to his skin like a bug to a rotten corpse and the humidity that threatened to suffocate him in a method that rivaled the very suffocation he endured today.

 

However, that all paled in comparison to the pain that plagued him from one central location.

 

If Killian’s clothes clung to his skin, the bandages that surrounded his hand – adhered to his skin by the seemingly ceaseless blood that still spilled out of his person – practically melded into it.

 

Killian bit his lips in an attempt to silence himself. After today’s show of confidence and resilience, he wouldn’t dare give his crew a reason to think he was weak – not after bringing them to a new realm. The impact of such a move probably left his crew panicked enough as it was, though he knew they’d never admit it. Still, he wouldn’t add to it.

 

So instead, he simply bit his lip and through the small gaps in between his teeth, breathed.

 

And needless to say, he suffered for it.

 

Teases of remnants of his dinner poked around his parched throat. The muffled rocking of The Jolly Roger through the walls of the captain’s quarters made him further ache of a burning desire for water, but his self-inflicted isolation let him do naught but want for it. While the mocking of his own vessel tempted him to relieve himself with his supply of rum, he just barely talked himself out of it. After all, on an island run by children, there was a chance that the luxury of alcohol would be in short supply in Neverland.

 

Not to mention, that very alcohol was currently acting as his sole source of disinfectant for the gaping wound that could do nothing but rest atop his pillow.

 

A glance at the bottle that stood parallel to him on his table reminded him that it was time to use it once more in the manner that he has been forced to accustom himself to. The distance between his bed and the edge of the table where his bottle stood, while only mere feet, more closely resembled a Herculean task of willpower in the face of his pain. It almost made him not want to do it, but his first mate Lewis had earlier described the effects of neglecting the task in graphic detail as he lathered Killian’s wound with his crew’s common rum the last time – how the infection would climb its way up his arm until it could do little more than rest by his side and then from there, poison his heart and lungs. And that was on top of the grueling fever that was sure to happen.

 

Needless to say, such an infection could only end in one way: his death.

 

If there was one thing Killian wasn’t ready to handle, it was his own death – not if Rumplestiltskin still breathed while his beloved Milah did not.

 

And so Killian readied himself for the peril he would now confront.

 

He whined as he shifted his arm on the pillow so that he could stand up. While by no means a complete relief for the agony his crocodile had bestowed upon him, the pillow did provide a means of elevation and a modest cushion for the injury. Without its presence, blood quickly flowed to the bottom of his arm. In moments, his arm was swelling, pushing back against the restraints of his bandages.

 

When biting his lip was starting to dwindle in its effectiveness, Killian began to notice how his breathing was now time with the pulses from his hand-deprived forearm’s swelling. He counted the pulses as he took one lethargic step after another as to keep his balance – a frustrating side effect of his lost limb. While the exercise was enough to help get him from his bed to the table successfully, Killian still fell into his chair when he finally reached it.

 

Once he sorted himself out in his chair, Killian grabbed the bottle of rum. As the temptation of a drink reared its ugly head again, Killian licked his lips. The amber liquid was to his dry mouth as was an oasis to a desert. A dry swallow that soon followed left him unable to choke back an ugly sob. Killian forced himself into silence as he listened for potential eavesdroppers and he took a parched sigh of relief upon not hearing any.

 

With his conspicuousness still unsullied, Killian once more pulled away from the bottle.

 

Then he turned his attention to his bandages.

 

Never had flat sheets looked so intimidating.

 

Killian curled his toes in anticipation as his hand gingerly went to peel off the bandage.

 

The pain was immediate. The bandages kept a stubborn hold onto his body, making every tug linger in the sting it left his skin with. He could feel the lower levels of his bandages latch onto his skin and he knew that by the end of this, even more of his skin would be left raw as a result of the change.

 

All at the same time, Killian’s stomach threatened to abort its contents from his body, his lungs lunged for a chance to release a blood curdling scream, and his mind fogged up in an attempt to go dark. Killian’s lip was now too sore to continue biting, so he instead pulled his teeth back and onto his tongue.

 

For the rest of his remaining days, Killian had no idea how he managed to keep himself conscious through the entire process of bandaging his hand, but he did and as a truth known only to himself, it served as one of his greatest accomplishments.

 

As he continued to pull the bandages off of his limbs, Killian felt his eyes bulge in and out in a mixture of panic and focus. While his efforts started out slow, he soon realized that he couldn’t bear the agony that came with elongating the undertaking. After a moment of readying himself, Killian made two tight pulls against his bandage and finally, that was that. Just as he imagined, another half inch of his arm now had fresh blood running down it and flesh exposed.

 

By this point, Killian felt his tongue nearly at the point of splitting open, but continued, stubbornly telling himself that it wouldn’t be much longer.

 

Killian lowered his hand onto the table as he finally opened up the rum, grateful that his bottle had a cork loose enough to be opened with one hand. After mentally going over Lewis’ instructions over how to do this, he lifted his stump into the air and started to drizzle the rum over it.

 

Two seconds was all it took to enfeeble him. Stub, arm, and bottle alike dropped to the table with a graceless thud. Killian listened once more for sounds of leering crew mates. Once more, he had been lucky.

 

Killian looked at the scene in front of him. He couldn’t do this – not alone, but not with his crew members either.

 

So, just as he did so many times before, he turned to his closest companion – his trusty bottle of booze. Grunting in a certain level of defeat, he took a generous swig of the tall bottle’s contents. He knew there would be consequences for his weakness, but he’d cross that bridge if he came to it. As it stood, all Killian wanted to do now was finish this cursed endeavor with his life and his dignity intact.

 

It didn’t take much longer for Killian to finish covering his stub in rum. Once he was done, he looked beyond the bottle that had offered him a moment’s peace to see a small bundle of bandages. He presumed that Lewis had prepared those for him and reminded himself to reward his first mate for his thorough work in the morning.

 

Applying the new layer of bandages didn’t hurt as much as taking off the old layer had. That’s not to say it wasn’t painful – he wouldn’t fib in such a way after all that he’d endured tonight – but there was a vast difference between the two ventures in terms of the pain they wrought. Now, instead of approaching the edge of his consciousness, he was merely pushed harshly in its direction.

 

With the bandages now secured onto the edge of his arm, Killian made his way back to his bed. Just like he did with his journey to the table, he reached his mattress successfully, but plopped onto it with the all of the elegance of a cod hoisted onto his deck.

 

Killian shifted his body as to prepare for sleep. At last, he could not only feel his body start to succumb to his urge to rest – a helpful side effect of both his dalliance with booze and the agonizing pain that persisted to remain close by – but actually allow himself to give in. As he permanently settled himself for the night, Killian took a final look at his table.

 

Standing behind the sullied bandages and half-empty bottle of booze stood another ally to his cause, one he made on this day – his hook.

 

A slowly dimming light that came off the lantern on the other end of his quarters reflected upon the point at the end of its seductive curve and the dance of shadows alongside the surface resembled the demon that was now its job to defeat.

 

The last lucid thought Killian had before drifting off was that this was the weapon that would bring an end to Rumplestiltskin, and on the glorious day came where his revenge could finally unfold, Killian swore that he’d return the pain inflicted on him by his crocodile today tenfold.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you feel like reviewing, it would be most appreciated! Otherwise, have a nice day!


End file.
